


Angel With a Shotgun (or two)

by badlifechoices



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Post-Fall of Overwatch, Self-Worth Issues, angsty broken dads, but jack doesn't know gabe is alive, gabe knows who soldier is, jack has a guardian angel, jack has issues and i mean a lot of issues, jack is blind, of a sort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-04
Updated: 2017-01-10
Packaged: 2018-09-06 11:54:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,348
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8749795
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/badlifechoices/pseuds/badlifechoices
Summary: Soldier doesn’t even know what he hoped to find there. He remembers being stationed here only once or twice and never more than a few days at a time. Maybe he’s getting desperate, after years of travelling, of hitting up one of their old headquarters after the other, always in search of something that could answer the million questions haunting him. And he needs answers, that much he knows.





	1. Chapter 1

The first time he hears something, it’s in the watchpoint on the outskirts of Nantes.

Soldier doesn’t even know what he hoped to find there. He remembers being stationed here only once or twice and never more than a few days at a time. Maybe he’s getting desperate, after years of travelling, of hitting up one of their old headquarters after the other, always in search of something that could answer the million questions haunting him. And he needs answers, that much he knows. It seems like there’s nothing left to him but the urge to find out where he went wrong, how he had managed to be blind enough to overlook the cancer growing in their middle. There is no doubt about who is to blame for all of this, who had led them into their doom. He had ignored the voices of warning, the desire to pretend they were still able to do good turning him into the same sort of fool he had always looked down upon.

He pushes the thoughts from his head, knowing there is nothing to find in the guilt that lingers on his shoulders. In a way, it’s just another scar, another nightmare he will never be able to escape. He knows there is no way to atone for any of this, his hands are stained with the blood of too many of his own soldiers. And that isn’t why he is here now. He still wants answers, wants to know who to direct his hatred at apart from himself. And maybe, just for a little moment, he wants to lose himself in his memories, wants to close his eyes and pretend that he’s back there again. He knows now that there was never a time when everything was still alright. There are no ‘good old days’ with the corruption festering in the heart of Overwatch ever since its official endorsement from the UN, with the officials manipulating him with their orders until he didn’t know what decision was truly his own. But there had been times when they’d been _happy_. When their family was still together.

The old soldier follows the long hallway, trying to remember if he’s been in this part of the station before. The place has been shut down for years and yet someone has put a lot of effort into keeping people out of the watchpoint. It doesn’t pose any difficulty to him, neither the updated security codes, nor the long lines of electrified fences and security cameras. He moves like the ghost that he is, unseen and undetected because even if he has no right to call it that, it is still his domain. The layout is nearly identical to that of most other outposts and it takes him no time at all to find the command centre. He checks the computers, not because he expects to find anything there, the servers have been wiped clean shortly after the fall but he makes a habit of being thorough. And it’s not like he’s in a hurry. He still has a couple of hours before dawn breaks and from the looks of the thick layers of dust embracing everything, no one has been here in years. Nothing indicates that he will run into anyone until he heads back towards the city.

His next stop are the archives in the basement. As much as everyone used to scoff at the idea of keeping records in printed form, Soldier finds that they’re coming in handy now. He’s learnt a lot more from abandoned files and transcripts than he did from the few encrypted data files he’s extracted from one of the isolated servers. There are names he can follow up on now but he can’t see the connections yet. There’s no system to his information and with every mission that leaves him empty handed, his frustration only grows. To make things worse he doesn’t seem to be the only one following up on those leads. Too often has he broken into one of the watchpoints only to find it raided already. He yet has to run into whoever it is that is systematically tearing their outposts apart, wrenching open file cabinets and breaking open the personal lockers. There is a gnawing feeling in his gut that whoever it is, they’re up to no good.

So, he keeps on his toes, pulse rifle raised to attention as he trudges down the stairs. The air tastes stale and he’s grateful for the visor filtering out the dust and mould. The uneasiness that has been sitting at the base of his spine ever since he’s slipped past the front gate, intensifies when he reaches the sublevels. Something is wrong. He can feel it, a tingling on his skin that throws his hyper-sensitive senses for a loop because he can’t pick up anything. It could be just his imagination, could be the ghosts that linger in this place. Memories of past mission debriefings, of laughing over the disgusting food in the mess. The glint of adrenaline Gabriel’s eyes as he pushes him against the wall in their quarters, hungry lips devouring each other, impatient hands scrambling to find the straps and buckles keeping their uniform in place, the adrenaline of the mission still coursing hotly through their veins. Soldier shakes his head, eyes narrowing behind the visor, as he forces himself to focus.

He stills in his steps when he finds the door to the basement only half hanging from its hinges. Someone has been here, someone who obviously lacked the patience to actually try and open the door the old-fashioned way. His footsteps are too loud in the silence that rests heavily on his shoulders, the boots thundering against the stone floor. There is no movement for the visor to pick up, nothing but the bugs scurrying along the walls and yet the strange feeling of being watched settles in his head. He’s felt it before, the stifling knowledge that there were eyes tracking his every movement. He doesn’t know when it started, months, maybe even a whole year ago, but it has been following him ever since. Somehow it doesn’t concern him as much as he should. He’s gotten used to it, written it off to the way his brain screws with him sometimes. This time it feels different. More tangible somehow, closer.

Soldier doesn’t get much farther when he sees something move in the periphery of his vision. He whirls around, finger closing around the trigger of his pulse rifle. A scavenger, he thinks, when he sees the man hunched in the corner, wide eyes staring at him. He’s carrying a gun but he makes no attempt to use it, so the soldier lowers his rifle in return. No matter how much he detests those vultures picking at the bones of what had once been his home, every fibre of his being rejects firing at someone who hasn’t tried to harm him first. “Get out of here,” he growls, his voice even more menacing as it filters through the visor.

The man doesn’t move and it is that very moment when the soldier realises that he’s gotten sloppy after all. He doesn’t have the time to react, when the butt of a rifle slams against his temple, can’t bite his teeth together quickly enough to muffle the groan of pain that escapes his throat. It’s not enough to knock him out, not enough to even harm him but coincidence has enabled the attacker to hit the metal of his visor just right. His interface flickers, a warning sign blinking once, twice and then it stops altogether. Darkness engulfs him, complete and utter darkness. It’s the same darkness that he woke up to years ago, the same panic that surged through his veins when he understood that he couldn’t see.

He stumbles backwards, not letting go of his pulse rifle. Disorientation settles in, the space around him closing in on him, suffocating. He gasps for air, tries to fight off the way his broken mind gives out on him. He can still hear, his enhanced senses enough to pick up on his opponents’ positions. But he can’t bring himself to move, can’t fight past the fog that settles around his brain. Teeth clenched, he steels himself for the next blow, the bullet to pierce his chest.

Instead he can hear someone cry out, a strangled sound, dripping with pain and a mortal fear that resonates in Soldier’s bones. There’s something else, an icy gust of wind against his skin that makes him shiver, a noise that reminds him of the wind tearing at the branches of the trees outside the farmhouse. The cry is wrenched from the man’s lips, replaced by a sickening sound of something solid tearing through flesh and bone. He can hear the body of his attacker hit the floor and then another one. And then the silence returns, stifling, pressing heavily into his ears. He’s shaking, his heart racing in his chest and the voice in his mind whispering that he’s going to be next, that whatever it was that took out the scavengers would come for him now, tear him limb from limb and leave him to bleed out on the floor.

But nothing happens.

The feeling of being watched doesn’t disappear, still clings to his mind, as he stumbles back towards the stairs. He doesn’t remember how he made it out of the facility once he’s outside, filling his lungs with the clean air they have been begging for. He drags himself back along the road, relying on his memory more than anything and inwardly thanking Angela for whatever miracle she worked to keep at least that part of him intact when she brought him back. The way to the watchpoint took him an hour, the way back takes him three.

Soldier collapses in the cheap hotel room, giving in to the crippling exhaustion as he curls into himself. The panic is still burning in his head, disassociation leaving him without any sense of time or place. It all swims together, a maelstrom of memories churning inside him until he finds the pills Angela has left him with. He pushes a handful into his mouth, swallowing them dry and then waits for the brief moment of composure and calm to embrace him and hopefully guide him to sleep.

He leaves the city as soon as he’s fixed his visor the next day, not sparing another glance at the menacing silhouette of the watchpoint in the distance. There’s nothing left to find for him there.

 

Soldier visits the grave. He doesn’t know what pulls him back there, why he keeps returning to this of all places whenever he feels himself starting to break. Maybe it’s a way for him to ground himself, a reminder that there is nothing left of the man he once was. For all he cares he’s a walking corpse, a ghost living on borrowed time and waiting for it to run out. They made it out to be a monument, a place of remembrance but he can see only the shadows clinging to every corner of the place. The large statue that looms up in the middle of the square looks nothing like him, not the Strike Commander that his people knew and swore to follow. Its face is twisted into a mask of grim determination, uniform adorned with medals he never received.

He huffs out a breath of disgust and pulls his hood deeper into his face. It’s not that anyone would recognise him, both due to the lack of similarity he shares with the pictures displayed and because there’s no one left to recognise him anyway. He’s dead, he reminds himself, as he approaches the grave, his gaze sweeping over the small crowd of people. Most of the ones looking up at the monument with wide eyes of awe are too young to remember the omnic crisis: Children clutching the hands of their parents, asking questions over questions about these _heroes_ they only learn about in history books. Little do they know that there’s nothing in that grave they’re staring at. An empty coffin they put to rest in a glorious ceremony that would have made his mother proud had she lived to see his fall from grace. He tunes out the words, ducking his head to make sure no one catches a glimpse of the visor. It’s still not up to 100 percent performance after his hasty attempt at fixing it, the red interface flickering every now and then.

 _Here lies Jack Morrison._ The plate is shattered and he doesn’t know why the sight of that makes him flinch. He knows there are still those out there who despise them, who blame him for everything that went wrong with Overwatch. He wonders who holds enough contempt to destroy this last reminder of his person.

“He was the greatest hero!” A voice chirps to his right and he turns his head just enough to spot the small figure of the woman next to him. She’s kneeling, next to one of the kids, her hands gesturing wildly and it doesn’t take the Soldier more than a second to realise who she is. Lena – Tracer – looks older and yet still too young for everything she’s been through, for what the UN forced Jack into putting her through. She’s always been way too young, a kid in his eyes and he’d fought with every last ounce of credibility he had to keep her out of this war. He wonders how she managed it, to retain that cheer after all the things she’s seen. He thought she too would despise him, blame him for the accident but instead she’s looking up at the memorial with such admiration in her eyes that he feels something inside him twist.

“He was a fool,” he grunts out in return, the words tasting bitter on his tongue as he couldn’t keep them locked behind his lips. The young woman whirls around, eyes narrowing as they fall upon his stature.

She frowns then, opening her mouth to object. Instead she asks: “Did you know him?”

Soldier wants to laugh at the irony of it but the sound gets stuck in his throat. “Only in passing.”

There’s something that keeps her gaze glued to him and for a moment his heart lurches at the fear of being recognised after all. So, he turns, without another word making his way back to his hideout to plan his next move. There’s an abandoned watchpoint only a few hours to the east, if he doesn’t linger he can make it there by nightfall.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my, I never expected so many kudos and reviews! Thank you so much!  
> The second part of this chaper is based on the short film "Hero" though I took a few liberties here and there. I hope you enjoy it~ also i figured the reason why he can't use his tactical visor all the time is either because the technology isn't good enough or because it's overstraining his nervous system so i went with the latter

The first time he smells something is in the watchpoint just outside of Berlin.

He thought it would be more difficult to break into the facility, given there’s still a guard on duty but once he’s climbed the wall he found that there was no one to stop the Soldier from slipping in through one of the side entrances. The buildings still look the same, the same fading paint trying to conceal the cracks in the walls, the same steel doors creaking when he pushes them open. He’s avoided this place for a long time because he knows that there are too many memories clinging to everything. They were stationed here several times, sometimes for months at a time, when the omnic crisis had been at its peak, threatening to devour all of Europe.

He avoids the courtyard, the open space screaming danger at him and not only because of the cameras in every corner. Instead he follows the shadows, slinks along like he is no more than a shadow himself. He remembers the way they would have the new recruits do laps around the courtyard in the burning sun of summer. Sometimes they would escape the enclosed space of the gym and spar there instead, turning each training match into a demonstration. Gabriel has always been better at hand to hand combat than him but he’s still managed to take him by surprise sometimes. He’d use his enhanced speed to throw the broader man out of balance and then pin him, practically straddling him, and relishing the way the other scowled, narrowed eyes promising a different kind of retribution altogether.

The soldier turns his head and hurries along. He leaves the courtyard behind, finally entering the main building. There’s nothing much on the ground floors apart from the conference rooms. He hated dragging himself there for debriefings after each mission. Hated having to retell every moment of the battlefield, every horror, every loss, while all he wanted was to return to the comfort of his quarters where a hot shower and the comfort of someone else's touch was waiting for him. The only times when it had been endurable had been the ones when Gabriel had been there. They’d push their chairs together, shoulders brushing and their hands tangled together under the table. It used to give him strength, the same strength that Gabe’s presence on the battlefield has always given him. Somehow the terror of fighting to the death always faded in the background when he knew that the one person he trusted most had his back.

His feet carry him up the stairs, his visor pinging to tell him that the hallway is clear. Not that he expected anything else. It’s the utter desertion of these places that gets him every time because he still remembers how full of life they used to be. Even when none of the high-ranking personnel was around, there were always doctors and scientists, seasoned soldiers, and recruits. There was always someone in the rec rooms, the sound of laughter or music filling the long halls. He remembers how hard it was back then to sneak away from all the commotion for a moment, remembers stolen kisses and short moments of intimacy in a secluded corner or an empty conference room.

Soldier finds nothing in the command centre but dust and wiped hard drives. There’s nothing even remotely worth his time and he moves on quickly enough, seeing no point in staring at empty screens. Frustration settles in his chest, when he finds nothing useful in the archives either. Whoever was at work here, has been more than thorough. The only files that are left are duty rosters, long lists of names, that mean nothing to him, and where within the station they were deployed. He pockets them anyway, figuring that he can at least try and make something out of it later. He hesitates then. Part of him wants to just get out of there, leave it all behind before the memories can overwhelm him, while at the same time the strange desire to linger takes a hold of him.

They’d moved into a different part of the facility after their promotion, away from the barracks. It towers over him, whispering a threat into his ears that lingers on his shoulders as he enters. He’s walked down these corridors countless times and as his gaze tracks over the names on the doors, he can’t help remembering the faces that go along with them. Some of them have died, others have disappeared, some, he knows, made it out of the war in one piece. He hasn’t followed up on any of them, feeling like he has no right to intrude in their lives, no matter how close they used to be. Most of these faces he’s seen change over the years. He’d always made a habit out of spending time with the recruits, getting to know them, earning their trust. Because he used to believe that going to war with people one didn’t trust only endangered both the mission and the soldiers.

He stops as soon as he spots the door at the end of the corridor, frozen for a little moment. Why is he here, he asks himself, what is he hoping to find in this place? But he’s never been one to back down, stubborn to a fault and maybe that was what had led to his downfall in the first place. So he clenches his fists and forces himself to keep walking. His heart is pounding in his chest when he pushes the door open and his muscles tense as though he’s expecting something to jump at him as soon as he steps into the room. Nothing happens. The same dust that has become his steady companion covers every surface. The bed is made, the same tidy way that Gabriel has always lovingly called him a neat-freak for. It’s too spacious, Soldier thinks. It was always just enough for the both of them but when Gabe was away on a mission without him, it was always too wide and empty. It feels empty now, lonely, even more so than the rest of the base.

His gaze wanders to the shelves, the row of books that neither of them had the time to touch and the stack of comics that have been read so often the pages are falling apart. There are no pictures, no other mementos to indicate that someone has ever lived in this place. They never took the time to put up posters like some of the other soldiers did, didn’t carve their initials into the bedposts or anything like they’d done it when they were still simple soldiers; before the SEP. He doesn’t stop to wonder just how much being turned into supersoldiers has taken from them, knows that it’s futile to ponder over things long lost.

Soldier should be leaving now but instead he finds himself climbing onto the bed, the files he found abandoned on the desk. He’s resting his head against the concrete wall in his back, eyes closed and blocking out the blaring red of the visor’s interface. He needs to give his head a break, the way the device feeds information into his brain too much for his strained nerves. Or maybe it’s not that at all, maybe it’s the surroundings that are tearing at something buried deep inside his chest. If he just strains his brain a bit, he can imagine the door swinging open, the heavy footsteps announcing Gabe’s return. He’s waited so long for him, staying up because he knows that the other will need someone to hold onto after his mission. He can see the smile pulling at those lips that are too soft for a warzone, can feel the warmth of his embrace.

He takes a deep breath, tries to force himself to focus but there is something else. His senses, that have only sharpened after his eyes gave out on him, pick up the faint scent that fills the room. It’s the scent of singed leather and gunpowder and cigarette smoke. But there’s something else too, something strangely familiar. He frowns, trying to place it because he’s so sure he knows it. It should tear him out of his dreaming, should put his mind on high alert but instead he finds that it wraps around him like a warm blanket, a moment of safety and security. Home, he realises then, it smells like home.

The room is still as empty as it was before when he opens his eyes. There’s no trace of anyone else, no second pair of tracks in the dust on the ground and apart from the ever-present feeling of being watched, he doesn’t sense anything. It was just another trick of his mind, a reminder of the creeping insanity that walks hand in hand with the memories.

The soldier grabs the files from the desk and leaves without another glance over his shoulder.

 

The first time he sees something is in the streets of Dorado.

He didn’t mean to stay in the city for longer than a few days, there’s no watchpoint nearby for him to hit up, nothing that would further his crusade. He got the intel on Los Muertos from one of the locals, a small woman who pleaded for his help against the gang because apparently, these people are desperate enough to turn to anyone who doesn’t run at the first sign of trouble. It makes Soldier think about just how much things have changed since the fall of Overwatch. Despite the many people that had still admired them, the public had turned against their _heroes_ , satisfied by the illusion of safety that their bringing the omnic crisis to an end had given them. And now that the organisation has fallen, they realise that there was no one left to ask for help. It would be ironic if it wasn’t so very fucked up.

So, he started directing his attention towards the thugs that terrorise the city, interrupted their transactions and followed up on whatever leads he got his hands on, to find their scattered hideouts. With every day, he spent in the heat of the Mexican nights, every time he dragged himself back to his temporary base it became clearer that this would take him a lot longer than he’d hoped. Los Muertos is a cancer, growing and festering in the heart of the city and their drug and extortion ring has grown uncontrollably since his last run in with the group. But he can hardly leave now, not because he considers himself a saviour or avenger who has taken it upon himself to fight all that is evil. No, he can’t leave because on one hand, these people depend on him and on the other hand there is simply no one else left to do it.

Dusk is breaking and the wide squares are too deserted to resemble the lively city he remembers from the times he’s been here when he was younger. He passes through the streets, preferring narrow alleyways to the open spaces between the buildings. The air is still warm from the day and it smells like the sea, the soft breeze tugging at his snowy hair. He’s always preferred the missions that took him anywhere near the coast, the sight of the churning waves one that had been entirely unfamiliar for him once. Gabe has always thought it all too funny how the American farm boy had never seen the sea before and Jack still remembered the awe he’s felt when they were first transferred to the watchpoint Gibraltar.

His overly sensitive ears pick up the activities before he rounds the corner, the loud noises of crates being moved, voices shouting in the dim light of the evening as though they aren’t the slightest bit afraid of attracting attention. And, why would they be? The surrounding buildings are mostly deserted, storage points for drugs and weapons and whatever else the gang is smuggling and even if there was someone listening in on them, no one would dare to try and stop them anyway. Sure, there are rumours of someone who’s started disrupting their activities but they don’t seem to think too much of it and as it is, they’re blissfully unaware of the danger they’re in.

He tries to keep up the element of surprise for as long, as he can, picks off one by one as they venture too far into the surrounding alleys. It’s too easy, knocking them out, stripping them of their gear and then leaving them to wake up to a pounding head in the morning. He doesn’t kill them, won’t use lethal force unless he absolutely has to because no matter how jaded and disillusioned he is, he still shies away from unnecessary deaths.

Soldier doesn’t see the second shadow in the alley but he hears them, the butt of his rifle slamming into the neck of the thug in front of him before he whirls around to face his attacker. The baseball bat is knocked aside, fist connecting with the other’s jaw. There are steps behind him and he turns, stepping back into the shadows to escape the eyes of the three men that are approaching. “Come on, get up.”

He waits, counts the seconds while the three try to get their comrade back to his feet. Glancing up at the sky, he finds that it’s not yet dark enough to give him the comfort of moving unseen but it will do. His right hand tightens around the rifle while he hoists up the unconscious gang member and throws him with as much force as he can muster, into the fuse box across the alley.

The lights flicker and then go out, leaving the street in an eerie twilight. “Did you see anything?” “W-who’s there?”

Soldier can hear the fear in their voices, feels a shiver crawl up his spine because it makes him feel disgusting while at the same time there’s a hint of cold satisfaction settling at the back of his brain. He moves before either of the man can react, every twist of his body as fluent and graceful as that of a cat. He doesn’t think, doesn’t have to calculate where his opponents will move next because this dance has been carved into his bones long ago. In a matter of seconds the three of them are down.

And that’s when things start to go to shit. He expected the shooters on the roof, though he can’t tell how many there are. What he didn’t expect is the machine gun, firing away at him with 750 rounds a minute, forces him out of the way, scrambling to get to cover. He sucks in a harsh breath, pressing a hand to his shoulder where the first bullet has torn right through the thick leather jacket to lodge itself into his flesh.

The skin on his arms tingles, the hairs at the back of his neck standing up as another sensation entirely invades his mind. It’s back, the feeling of being watched and before he knows it, his eyes search the rooftops. He sees the shooters, counts at least a dozen but there’s something else too. A shadow, moving too quickly even for his visor to pick up. He can’t tell what it is, unable to make out any specifics but for some reason the sight is strangely comforting. He knows now that he’s not alone, that there is someone, _something,_ to have his back.

Teeth gritted, he sprints out of cover, dodging the hail of bullets as best as he can and sends a burst of helix rockets flying towards the truck. The blow of the impact tears the machine gun apart and incapacitates the shooter. But there’s no time to bask in the victory. He jumps, twists his body mid-air, and brings up one hand to the visor. Pain, sharp as a knife tears through his head as the visor highlights his targets, the overload of sensory input burning his optic nerves to crisp. A bullet pierces his leg, another grazes his temple but he barely realises it. Three targets, three shots. And not a single one misses its mark, taking out the gunmen as precisely as any sniper could. He groans, as his back hits the steel of the dumpster, clenches his fists tightly around the rifle to push away the pain of the bullet wounds. This is what he’s been made for, to keep going even with his body torn apart.

Soldier doesn’t move for a second, gaze glued to the rooftops. A dozen, he’s counted before but now he’s taken out three and yet there’s no one else in sight. Narrowed eyes keep looking for something, anything. A shadow, a dark mist clouding the periphery of his vision and he whips his head around. The roofs are empty.

Without another moment of hesitation, he slips back to his feet, body hunched over ever so slightly as he shifts his weight away from his injured leg.

The scream takes him by surprise and he feels cold dread invade his veins as he turns only to spot the kid cowering behind the dumpster. His eyes widen the slightest bit and he curses himself for not realising she was there before. She looks up at him with wide eyes, fear written so clearly across her features that it makes him feel sick. She’s scared of him, terrified even and he finds himself taking a step towards her instinctively. It’s okay, he wants to tell her, you’re safe. But instead he hears the engine of the truck and the loud shouting of the remaining Los Muertos thugs. He swallows the curse that lingers on his tongue and whirls around to face them. “You don’t get off that easy.” It’s a promise more than anything.

The grenade goes sailing past him, thrown too far to hit him and if he had the time to think, he’d wonder if it was even aimed at him in the first place. He’s hyper aware of the girl behind him, of the terror in those wide, brown eyes that remind him of someone else’s.

He moves before he can even finish the thought. His body reacts on instinct, as he curls up around her, blanketing her with his larger frame, and squeezes his eyes shut.

Pain. Agony flooding his system like molten fire.

The explosion tears through his side, ripping apart skin and muscle, shrapnel burying itself in his ribs and waist and all he can do is bite through his tongue to keep himself from screaming.

It takes him a moment before he can force his limbs to move, gently cradling the girl’s head in his hands, as he checks her for injuries. She’s unharmed and the wave of relief that hits him then is almost enough to numb the pain for a split second. Her eyes are gentle and warm, filled with awe and wonder and Soldier can’t help but think that he’s only seen eyes as beautiful as that once in his life.

“You saved me. Why?”

He huffs out a breath, swallowing the whine of pain that rises in his throat. Because he has enough blood on his hands already, too many deaths to his name. Because there is a tiny part of him left that believes that there is no cost too high for saving innocent lives. Because he couldn’t bear seeing those hazelnut eyes staring lifelessly up into the sky. Soldier shrugs and immediately regrets the gesture as it pulls at the gaping wound in his side. “Old habits die hard I guess.”

On second thought, he throws her the purse he’s picked up from one of the thugs, figuring that it is hers and the way her eyes start to smile confirms the suspicion. He curls an arm around himself, pressing his hand against his side in a futile attempt to stop the bleeding. He has to get out of there, can’t end up dying to the feet of this kid who has nothing to do with any of this. The fog begins to settle around his mind, thick clouds blocking out the sight and this time it’s not the visor’s fault. Limping, he slowly drags himself out of the alley, only stopping once when he hears the girl’s voice in the alley behind him.

“You’re one of those heroes, aren’t you?”

Something constricts his throat, causes his breath to hitch. No, he’s no hero. He’s just an old, faded echo of what people made him to be. Maybe he was a hero once and he’s not even sure if he would agree with that. Jack Morrison was a puppet, moved by the invisible strings in the UN’s hand and even if he tried his best to save people, to make the world a better place, was any of it really his doing?

“Not anymore.”


	3. Chapter 3

The first time he feels something he’s bleeding out on the floor of the run-down motel room that has been his hideout for the last days.

He doesn’t remember how he made it back there, doesn’t remember abandoning his visor on the bed before collapsing. He’s curled into himself, shivering as the blood loss fills his body with the dreadful cold that reminds him of the embrace of death he's encountered all too often. Every breath that he takes tears at his raw throat, drags at his lungs that threaten to give out on him. He’s waiting for the biotic canister to recharge, self-preservation instinct fighting with that muffled voice at the back of his head that keeps asking why he even bothers. It's not like his life means anything after all. Maybe it would be better to just stop fighting, give in to the cold and just sleep. Arms wrapped around himself, he feels too small, too fragile, his own blood hot against the cold skin of his hands.

Something brushes against his cheek, too gentle to be a mere gust of wind but it’s gone before he can wonder about it. His thoughts are spinning, his broken mind mixing long lost memories into a stew of emotions, repeating to the same questions again and again. He’s lost all sense of time, counts the seconds because it’s the only thing that keeps him anchored in the here and now. Three more seconds before the canister is recharged, then five seconds for it to attempt to fix the most severe of his injuries, before he has to wait another fifteen seconds. Something moves in the room, he can sense it before he hears the rustling of cloth, the gentle tread of footsteps. There’s not enough strength left in his limbs to flinch, to try and move away and protect himself. He’s too vulnerable, his mind warns him, too exposed in his state but there’s nothing he can do against it. It sends his brain into another lapse, down the rabbit hole, until his breathing turns into a desperate gasping for breath, sickness invading his stomach as he hyperventilates. The seconds, he’s lost count of the seconds.

A hand touches his shoulder, too careful to belong to anyone who’s out for his head and despite all of his better judgement he finds himself leaning into it. His own fingers tremble, skitter across the floor as he searches for the biotic canister. Someone beats him to it. The device gives a soft click as its activated and suddenly warmth floods through his body. Relief rattles past his teeth, a breathless sigh, as he feels the heat seep through his broken body. He should be used to it, to the way it pulls at his insides as it begins to repair the damage done to his organs, mending muscles, and sinews. It’s not enough, he knows it will take a lot more than that to get him back to his feet but it staves off the threat of death that’s been lingering at the edges of his conscious.

The hand doesn’t move away from his shoulder, simply rests there and he finds that he can breathe again, drawing in as much air as he can until his lungs seem to be bursting. Something brushes against his face, fingers trailing the path that the scars have carved into his skin. They’re too careful, too gentle and Soldier feels himself shivering again, though not from the cold this time.

“Jack.” The voice is hoarse, darker than he remembers and so low he can barely hear it through the fog settling around his head.

No, he wants to reply, don’t call me that. The Jack you know is dead and gone, he doesn’t exist anymore. But not a sound escapes his bloodied lips. He knows that this is just another one of the hallucinations that have been haunting him, that sneak into his waking hours to replace the nightmares tormenting him in his sleep. And yet, even as a part of him realise that none of this is real, that his overstrained mind is just cooking up whatever it figures can calm him best, he thinks that it’s not too bad this time. If he just swallows all the bad memories, the guilt and pain, for a little moment, he can let himself have this. He relaxes into the touch, coughs as he forces himself to speak past the pain in his throat. “Gabe.”

He can hear the other exhale and then the rustling of cloth once more, as he moves closer, no doubt kneeling by his side. The biotic field deactivates itself and he clings to the last moments of warmth before the cold hits him again. He doesn’t have the strength to move from his position on the floor and when the hands disappear from his form he feels the abandonment like a shot to the chest, drawing all the air out of his lungs. Yet before he can mourn the loss, blame his mind for not keeping this one illusion up for a bit longer at least, he hears the other shift. Judging from the sounds he’s lying down on the floor with him and then the touch is back.

The hand brushes over his temple, fingers coming up to comb through his hair. Soldier wonders what the real Gabriel would say to it. He used to love Jack’s hair, used to love running his hands through it, tugging at it to pull him into a kiss. Soldier knows that its golden colour has turned white long ago, knows that it has gotten thinner, one of the many reminders that no one escaped the clutches of death unmarked. He focuses on his breathing, on keeping it steady as he finds himself getting lost in the feeling of that gentle touch. It’s comforting in the strangest of ways, calming the churning sea that is his mind. Of all the hallucinations, this has to be his favourite and he wonders why his brain hasn’t come up with this before. A sweet escape, a moment of solace to keep him grounded.

“You haven’t changed at all. Always had to play the big damn hero. Always told you one day it would get you killed but you never listen, don’t you?”

He coughs and the movement shakes his entire body, the metallic taste in his mouth intensifying. A thumb drags across his lips, wipes away the bile and blood in an almost painfully loving gesture. “I’m not a hero.” Because Gabriel of all people would know, Gabriel, who was the first to believe in Jack, to have his back through everything. Wonderful, handsome Gabriel, who swept him off his feet with nothing but a smile, who promised him the world and would’ve given it to him had the very organisation they built with their own hands, not taken it all away from them. Gabriel, who didn’t stop loving him even as the UN tried its best to separate them, to make them hate each other.

And there’s his proof that this is nothing but another trick of his mind, no matter how impressively vivid it is – maybe it means that he’s truly losing it now, insanity like a Damocles sword finally about to strike. Because Gabe would not look at him now and call him a hero. He would see just how much of him has been burnt, how the man he used to be is nothing but a faint reminder now, an echo from the past that he can’t seem to escape. The real Gabriel wouldn’t touch him like that now because he would know that Jack doesn’t deserve it.

The humming of the biotic field interrupts the silence once more and Jack sighs, feeling some of the tension in his shoulders uncurl as he waits for his skin to knit back together, for the shattered bones to put themselves back in their place. He blinks against the tears in his eyes and shifts the slightest bit. The illusion moves with him and he can feel the other’s body next to his own, not quite touching but a definite presence there. The smell is back, singed leather and cigarette smoke mingling with the distinct scent of drying blood. Home, Soldier thinks. Maybe he really should head back to that farmhouse in Iowa, not because there’s anyone left to know him there but because it has never been tainted by the darkness of the world, by the painful memories.

“Jack,” Gabe says and he frowns.

“No.” It’s reply enough, the plea in his voice almost tangible. “I’m not him.”

There’s a huff of breath and Soldier can’t help the little twitch of his lips as it’s the same irritated noise the older man always made when Jack was being particularly stubborn. “Believe me, cariño, I’m fully capable of recognising my fiancé. Even if you have gotten a bit frayed around the edges.”

His breath hitches, a different kind of pain burning through his chest. His own hand moves, ignoring his exhausted muscles, to pull out the chain from under his jacket. He’s never found his dog tags, has left them buried under the rubble of the Zurich headquarters but it was easy to retrieve the ring since he never wore it around his neck. He'd been too scared to lose it on a mission, to get caught in a hostage situation and have someone take if from him. Now he never takes it off anymore, clinging to this one reminder that he simply can't abandon. It brushes against his fingers, the metal warm as it rested against his chest all day.

The gentle rumble the gesture earns him, shudders through his body and resonates in his very bones. “You still have it.” And he thinks he can hear a hint of bitterness in those words, wrapped in sadness and an exhaustion that Soldier understands all too well. But there's affection as well, an overwhelming adoration that makes him ache. “I never found mine after Switzerland.”

A smile tugs at his lips. Even if this is all in his head, he finds that he doesn’t mind the break from reality at all. For the sake of his own tired mind, he will indulge himself just for a little while longer. “We’ll get you a new one,” he promises, letting his eyes fall shut as he feels those gentle fingers tangle with his own. They never had the chance to turn their engagement into something more and yet the idea of marrying the love of his life had carried him through so many missions, kept him hoping for something better, no matter how fucked up everything got.

After he'd woken up in Angela’s lab, he regretted that they never got to take that step, thinking that it would make things just a little bit more real, give him just a little bit of comfort. Yet after a while he’s accepted it as just another thing that wasn’t meant to be. Just like they weren’t supposed to be. Fate just has the habit of promising him things and then screwing him over.

“I miss you,” he admits quietly and there’s too much to those words to describe, too much pain and grief. He doesn’t know what else to say and a strange warmth settles in his stomach when he feels a pair of cool lips brush against his forehead.

“I’m here, mi luna. I’m here.”

 

The humming of the biotic field and the feeling of Gabe’s breath ghosting over his face is what lulls him to sleep in the end. The pain of his injuries strangely numb and far away, he finds himself slipping before he even knows it. “Stay,” he pleads in those last moments of consciousness, as though the other is truly more than just an illusion. “Please don’t leave me again.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A very short chapter but it just felt better on its own.


	4. Chapter 4

The first time he realises that Gabriel is _real_ is when he wakes up in the bed of the motel room after the first night in six years without nightmares haunting his dreams.

Soldier startles at first, disorientated by the sheer amount of sleep he’s gotten. He’s used to resting for four, maybe five hours and then being back on his feet, used to the constant exhaustion clinging to his very bones. A hand brushes over his arm and he flinches, instinctively scrambling away until his brain catches up with reality. The hand retreats, though he can feel it lingering, hovering just above his skin and he finds that it’s almost too easy to regulate his breathing. Reaching out, his fingers find Gabe’s hand, gently grasping it with his own and he can hear the other exhale a shaky breath at the touch.

He’s not sure what to say. There’s too much, too many questions and at the same time he’s afraid that if he just opens his mouth, the moment will shatter. He needs this, will hold onto it for as long as he can because he hasn’t felt this _whole_ since his world has gone up in flames.

The silence stretches and yet it doesn’t rest heavily on his shoulders. It’s comfortable in an all too familiar way and there is something blossoming in his chest that he has been missing for so long, he barely recognises it now: hope. It crawls into his chest, so overwhelming that he can barely breathe. “You’re still here,” he finally whispers and it’s more to convince himself that all of this is more than a dream.

When Gabe doesn’t respond, he leans backwards, not disappointed to find an arm wrapping around him and anchoring him against the other’s chest. “It’s been a long time, Jack.” He doesn’t complain about the name, though the mere sound of it still makes him feel nauseous. He’s sure the other can feel it, the way his shoulders tense, because the fingers interlaced with his own tighten their grip. “I thought you were dead, cariño. They told me there was nothing left of you after the explosion. It took me so long to find you again, don’t take this from me.”

And the solder wants to laugh because this is his line. He’s the one who dug through the leftovers of the Zurich watchpoint in a desperate search for Gabe’s body, the one who went to his funeral to watch an empty coffin being lowered into the ground. But the bitter amusement gets stuck in his throat because he can hear the longing in the others voice. “You found me. Why didn’t you contact me earlier?”

The breath that has been fanning against the back of his neck, hitches, and he doesn’t try to think about how strangely cold Gabe feels against his back, like he doesn’t generate any body heat of his own and merely sucks up what he can get from the soldier. “Zurich left none of us unscarred,” Gabe mumbles quietly. “When I finally found you, I couldn’t believe it at first. I thought someone was fucking with me and I was ready to kill the piece of shit but it was you. And I swear I wanted nothing more than to tell you that I’m alive but- It’s bad, Jack. Hell, I’m not even sure I’m really alive in the first place. I didn’t want- I couldn’t let you see me like this.” His voice is oozing with pain, an insecurity that is so unlike the confident Blackwatch commander he used to be. “I’ve done things, Jack. I couldn’t let you see what I’ve become. I wanted you to remember me the way I was.”

The words burrow themselves into his chest like knives. He doesn’t dare to ask how Gabe survived Zurich in the first place, doesn’t ask what exactly he’s been up to. Instead he shifts, turning around in Gabe’s arms. He can feel the other’s hesitation, the way the arm around his middle strains to hold him in place for a little moment, before releasing him enough that he can fully turn around to face his beloved. “It’s okay,” he says and he’s sure that they both know it will take a lot more than just those words to make things okay but it’s a start. “You always looked good with scars.” It’s a weak attempt to ease the tension a bit but it works. Soldier can hear Gabe huff out a breath of disbelief and then he’s being pulled closer, the hold almost painfully tight, as the other presses his face into the crook of his neck.

“You really must be blind to say that.” The feeling of those lips moving against his skin causes him to shiver and he finds his lips pulling into a small smile.

“Can’t see shit without the visor. Thought you’d have caught up on that by now.” He brings up a hand, carding his fingers through the other’s hair. It’s longer than he remembers, long enough to reach Gabriel’s ears, but it’s just as soft. Gabriel doesn’t respond, merely continues to breathe against his neck, as though he’s trying to familiarise himself with his scent again. It reminds the soldier that he’s still bloodied and grimy and probably stinks of sweat.

He’s hesitant to get up, doesn’t want to untangle himself from Gabe’s arms because there’s a part of him that’s afraid he’ll just disappear again. His chest constricts, lungs struggling to draw in the desperately needed air and he feels a wave of shame wash over him because he’s panicking too easily again. Soldier focuses on the breath against his neck instead, the slight tickling, steady and cool like a fresh breeze.

Gabriel reads his mind. He always did, even when they were still young and stupid, mere weeks into the SEP program and hadn’t yet figured out just why they made such a good team together. “I’ll be here,” he promises and suddenly the soldier feels like the crushing weight is lifted from his shoulders. He sucks in a harsh breath, shivers at the loss of warmth when the blanket, that was wrapped around him, falls away. His shirt is torn and the way it scrapes against his skin betrays all too obviously that it’s caked with dried blood. He figures his trousers can’t look too much better. His muscles are aching, screaming in pain as he forces himself to stretch. The soreness is familiar, a constant reminder of just how much damage the biotic field had to repair.

He hears the sheets rustle behind him as he makes his way across the room, hands outstretched in front of him and he feels insecurity creep up his spine because he must look like a fool. He tries to keep his thoughts from straying, his mind rooted in place before he can ask himself what the hell Gabe still sees in him. Maybe he doesn’t. Maybe he’s here merely out of pity for an old, broken soldier.

He stills in his steps, fists clenching at his sides before he turns his head ever so slightly. “Gabriel.”

“Yes, Jack? Can’t find the way?”

He ignores the teasing jab, instead squares his shoulders before he loses his last bit of confidence to the nagging self-consciousness. “Kiss me.” It’s less of a command than it is a question but he tries not to mind the way his voice falters.

His words are followed by a moment of silence, heavy and deafening and he suppresses the urge to run his bubbling up in his brain because that’s just utter bullshit. Again, the rustling of sheets, feet scraping over the worn-out carpet, a whiff of air that brushes past his cheek. There’s a presence curling around him, like he’s caught in a thick fog and he’s wondering if this is another hallucination.

“Jack.” Gabe says again and this time his voice is close enough that the soldier can almost taste the word. It’s a rumble, deep and slow. “I’m not sure this is such a good idea.”

“Just kiss me damnit!” It sounds desperate even in his ears, harsher than he meant but it elicits a chuckle from the other that warms his chest in the most wonderful way.

A hand sneaks around the back of his neck, cool glove against his skin and Gabe’s breath fans over his cheek. “Yes, sir.” And before he can tell him to stick the title where the sun doesn’t shine, there’s a pair of lips on his own. The kiss is nothing like the ones he remembers. Gabe’s lips used to be soft, always tended to with the chap sticks he hoarded in the pockets of his coat, and warm. Now they’re rough, about as chapped as his own and their touch is cold enough to send a violent shiver down his spine. The corner of Gabriel’s mouth is rough, as though badly scarred and he thinks he can feel the rough drag of bone against his own skin. He doesn’t give the other the chance to pull back, reaches up to bury his fingers in those luscious locks again and pulls. Teeth, sharper than he expected, scrape along the flesh of his tongue, their sting only soothed by the slide of Gabriel’s tongue against his own. He tastes like ash and smoke and when Soldier pulls back to breathe, he feels something tickle at his throat, seep into his lungs and expand in his chest. It’s a strange sensation but it doesn’t deter him, not when he finally has this. His fingertips brush over Gabe’s scalp, earning him a low hum that he greedily swallows as their mouths meet again.

He only pulls back when he feels an overwhelming dizziness invade his head, his world spinning around him. The soldier is breathing heavier than he should, lungs screaming for oxygen. The tickling in his throat eases when Gabriel takes a step back, his hand still lingering at the back of his neck as though to steady him.

Soldier stumbles into the shower, discarding the foolish thought to ask Gabriel to join him. He’s not sure his brain could handle the intimacy, no matter how much he longs to feel those hands all over his body. The water is scalding hot on his skin after the coolness of Gabe’s touch but he doesn’t adjust it, scrubs himself clean until he can feel that his skin is raw and pink. He still doesn’t feel clean. There are things that he can’t wash off, stains that have been marring his being for years.

He doesn’t know how they end up on the bed again, pressed close enough for him to feel the movement of Gabriel’s chest as he breathes. It’s relaxing, soothing in a way that he’s almost forgotten. Soldier hasn’t bothered reaching for the visor, knows that there is nothing to see that would change his mind about this.

Maybe it’s hours, maybe mere minutes until he finally brings up the courage to ask the question that’s been burning on his tongue. “Will you stay?”

Gabe’s lips brush against his forehead and he thinks he can hear him sigh under his breath. “I can’t.”

He swallows thickly, forcing himself to nod because he hasn’t expected anything else. “I’ll come with you then.”

And that takes the other by surprise, it’s obvious from the way his hands suddenly still, his breath faltering. “It’s not that easy, cariño.”

Silence settles over them again. The soldier doesn’t know what to say in return and his lover remains quiet. He doesn’t need explanations, doesn’t need to know what the other has been up to because he knows that Gabriel will tell him if he wants him to know. It’s strange, the paranoia has settled so deeply in his very being and yet he trusts this man unconditionally after everything that has happened. Because despite their disagreements, despite the horrors they both have endured, they always had each others back.

“Will you be back?”

A huff of air against his forehead. “I can hardly leave you alone, you can hardly find the way to the bathroom on your own, Jack.”

Despite the tightness in his chest, the soldier can feel his lips pull into a smile.

 

It seems like one ghost never rises from the grave alone.

Soldier doesn’t know how she found him, maybe the same way that Gabriel did, maybe he’s just not as inconspicuous as he thinks he is.

He doesn’t realise there’s a sniper in his back until the man he’s fighting drops to the floor with wide eyes, the bullet buried in his forehead. Two more fall to his right, caught before they can even realise what is going on. He flinches, immediately ducking out of the way, though he knows that a sniper as talented as that will have no trouble hitting him even as he’s trying desperately to find cover. The bullet hits him in the shoulder but instead of the red-hot pain he’s expecting, he feels a soothing touch, similar to that of his biotic canister. IT spreads from his shoulder, a whisper on his skin until he feels the ache of his tired muscles fade into the background.

His eyes scan the rooftops, brain thrown into a loop of ‘what if’ and ‘it can’t be’ because there’s only two snipers he knows that are good enough to pull off shots like that and one of them works for the enemy while the other is dead. He catches a glimpse of something moving, too quickly for his visor to pick up before it disappears into the shadow again. He hears the swish of a coat, strangely familiar though that could be pure coincidence.

It’s only when she drops into the alley next to him, that all the doubts are torn from his head.

Ana looks older, worn down and yet she still holds her head up, her shoulders a straight line. Her hair is white as snow, contrasting her dark skin and his gaze is instinctively drawn to the patch over her right eye. He remembers all too vividly her last words over the comm, how she chose to close the channel before disappearing. He remembers his enhanced hearing picking up the shot, remembers panicking but there was no way for him to remain and search for her, not with his team in danger and Ana making it unmistakeably clear that she’s no longer part of the mission. He remembers the grief, the sheer agony when he finally got the green light on sending out a rescue team and they came back empty handed. It was the first time he’d cried ever since he’d entered the SEP, the first time he’d allowed himself to show weakness in front of others. Ana had been his oldest friend, the one person next to Gabriel he trusted with his life. He’d thought he could never get over her death.

There are no accusations, no anger in his voice, when he looks down at her. “It’s good to see you.”

The smile that curls around her lips makes her eye shine, the soft crinkles around her mouth not hiding how beautiful she still is. “It’s been a long time, Jack.”

And he doesn’t have the heart to tell her that Jack is dead, that this is not his name anymore. Not when he finds himself on his knees, while she cradles his head against her stomach, her fingers threading through his hair as though it’s been days and not years since they last saw each other. Where Gabriel brings him a feeling of home, or belonging, Ana gives him a sense of safety, of being able to let go because she’ll always be there to catch him.

 

Ana tells him that someone is recalling ex-Overwatch agents to active duty. He frowns at the notion, knows that the sniper feels the same sense of unease even though it doesn’t show on her face.

They’re two cans of tea in when she decides that she will answer the call. Soldier knows that there is no way he’s letting her go on her own.

 

It’s strange how he’s been avoiding watchpoint Gibraltar all those years, not because he knew that Winston was holing up there but because there were too many memories buried there. It’s only Ana’s presence that calms him enough not to turn on his heels now. The conference room is packed with the most ragtag crowd of people. Some of them he recognises, those he’s met before. There are the ones he’s shared a past with, like Reinhardt who used to be part of the original strike team, and those he only knows in passing like the Shimada sitting on one of the tables or Lena who is bouncing on her heels. They’ve all changed, hardened over the years and it pains the old soldier to look upon them now. Most of them he’s never seen before, the young Vishtar agent, the young woman who seems engrossed in some kind of game she’s playing on her comm device.

None of them recognise him in return and he’s thankful for that. Soldier knows he will have to face them all eventually, he will have to see the look of betrayal and disbelief on their faces. Ana squeezes his hand and he knows that she’s already had her fair share of ‘I thought you were dead’s.

Right now, however, his eyes are glued to the figure in the corner of the room. He’s leaning against the wall, long coat nearly brushing over the floor to his feet and the menacing mask in place to hide his features from sight. His shape is strangely blurry, as though he’s constantly surrounded by some sort of dark fog. The others are avoiding him, his reputation as a notorious and deadly mercenary precedes him. The soldier doesn’t need to look behind the mask to know that there’s a pair of gentle eyes resting on him. It’s not only the scent that betrays him, no matter how unique the mixture of death and gunpowder is. It’s the way he walks, the way he carried himself that just screams familiarity.

Soldier hardly listens to the speech Winston is holding. It’s nothing he hasn’t heard before, nothing he hasn’t said to his soldiers before. He’s fine with following orders, more than fine. At least like this he’s not the one who gets the responsibility for things shoved down his throat when things go to shit. Not that he would trust himself to lead anyone but himself ever again.

Reaper lingers after the meeting and so do they, waiting as everyone else files out of the room. They don’t pay much attention to the soldier in the back, or the old sniper at his side. The mercenary gets a few sideway glances, distrust colouring their stares.

Ana is the first one to speak up when they’re finally alone. “Gabriel.” And the soldier feels his heart ache in his chest when the man in question lifts a hand to unfasten the mask. His breath catches in his throat. His eyes are no longer their gentle brown, red irises giving off an eerie glow. His face is ashen, mottled with dark patches where the skin almost seems to be decaying. A flash of bone shimmers through the side of his cheek. And yet, Soldier can’t help but think that this is still the man he fell in love with so long ago. All he feels is the urge to take that face into his hands and kiss him until he knows those lips as well as he knows his own once more.

“I told you I’d be back.” Gabe’s words are directed at the soldier and there is something akin to a plea in his voice, as though he fears that he will be rejected now that the other can actually see him.

The soldier gives in to the urge and reaches out a hand to brush over Gabriel’s cheek, as gently as he can muster. “I missed you.”

There is an all too familiar warmth in those red eyes, a barely noticeable quirk of his lips and Soldier finds himself drowning. He ducks his head, when Ana pulls them both in, strong arms wrapping around them in a hug that almost makes the world feel a little less fucked up than it is.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> first of all i'm sorry to make you wait so long for this last chapter. secondly, i set down the rating because the smut that i had planned didn't happen after all. don't you worry though, there will be smut in the future just not in this work. thirdly thank you all for the kudos and comments!! 
> 
> also ana and jack being bffs is my ultimate weakness 
> 
> will beta it first thing in the morning

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first ever Overwatch fanfic so be kind to me don't worry I won't let you wait too long with the update. Find me on tumblr so we can talk about the five million story ideas I still need to write! chekov-in-a-dress.tumblr.com


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